His Hands

His hands are new to me,
but I know them well.
I’ve watched them pull pints,
clean glass,
polish brass.

I’ve watched them write words,
touch his lips,
sit on hips,

And now they’re on me.
The fingers I’ve watched be districted
now focus solely on me.

They search me,
like I had taken the pen that had stopped them writing.
Like I had hidden the cloth that had stopped them wiping.

I find excuses for being loved,
because I, myself, am never enough.


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